


love that burns hot enough to last

by simplymellifluous



Category: Video Blogging RPF, oneyplays
Genre: AVGN reference, Ass Staring, Crushes on Friends, Drunken Flirting, Drunkenness, Friends to Lovers, Gets to the Smut Later, Grinding, Karaoke, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Newgrounds, Pining, Sleepycabin - Freeform, Thigh Touches, Touching, Voice Kink, Weirdly Specific Self-Indulgent Humor, almost?? dub con?? not really?, but i've never done karaoke so it might be inaccurate, chris is a bottom guys sorry that's just how it is, chris is biseckual, irish accent slurring, like a Lot of boner references, oneyplays - Freeform, scheming for sexing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25614679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplymellifluous/pseuds/simplymellifluous
Summary: Chris can feel his heart in his ribcage, and it’s disgustingly the best feeling in the world. No Tinder date, no school girl back home, no gorgeous stranger has ever made him feel this absolutely fucked-over in this way, and it’s making him shiver. His eyes are glued straight forward to Jaxxy so that Mick can’t see the love and horny in his eyes. He can feel Mick scan his jaw for a second, and over the karaoke song, can hear a short murmur echo from his lips.“You’d be a steal for a girl. Or a boy or whatever.”Fuck.(yes i spent half an hour trying to find a lyric from a whitney houston song so that the title was full circle)(yes i'm back with another self-indulgent oneyplays ship)
Relationships: Chris O'Neill/Mick Lauer
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

“Taaaaaaakeeeee…..on…..mee……” Zach screeches, hitting high-notes that Chris didn’t know existed.

Cory’s bassy voice overlaps Zach’s last word, “Takkeeeee…..meeeee…..onn….” 

“I’ll...be... gone….” Zach stares lovingly at Cory like they’re reenacting that one scene from _The Notebook._

“In a day or….” The most terrifying wails emanate throughout the room as the two have blown the mics out screaming something reminiscent of the word “two.” Everyone erupts into giggles and Tomar chokes helplessly on his beer, grinning. Zach can’t finish the song because he’s laughing too hard so Cory tries to salvage it by caterwauling the rest, but he eventually loses the beat to constant wheezing. Chris, also chuckling, stares at the both of them with a keen eye. _This is a great night._

There was something about singing that just really brought some carnal emotion out of Chris. It was probably formed out of how his family would always sing songs together at Christmas. Even as a kid, his dad would sit him up on his lap and try to teach Chris which keys on the piano to press as the O’Neills belted out We Wish You a Merry Christmas. 

Usually, the emotions would just be joy and pride for his hilarious group of friends, but anyone who watched Les Mis with him would know that a good voice makes him crumble. When Zach and Chris went to New York City to see it, Zach couldn’t help but notice Chris wiping away a few tears and giving glowing gazes to the actors on stage. He thought it was adorable but a little embarrassing, so he didn’t bring it up as the two started to discuss the bitchy girls interrupting the show behind them.

 _So, he was a bit emotional. So what? It’s just gonna be a few jokey songs tonight._ That’s what he thought as he entered the karaoke party, and what he assumed as he giggled at his friends’ renditions of Mamma Mia, Chop Suey, Toxic, and Take On Me. That thought continued comfortably until Jaxxy made Chris aware that Mick is coming tonight as well.

Chris has many deep, dark, spooky secrets, but one of his deepest, darkest, classified, most reserved secrets is this: he kinda likes Mick. Not in the _gay_ way, he always asserts, but in the “Maybe if you kissed me on the lips, I might not pull back,” way. It might seem a little gay, but Chris has jacked off to weirder shit. It’s not a _crush_ crush, he would just _really_ not have an issue if Mick snuggled next to him every night with his large arms wrapped around him.

Whatever. So it might be a crush. Perhaps.

This feeling towards his friend only started to develop about a year ago, but it’s badgered Chris every night since it started. They were recording for Oneyplays, and they were playing some random bullet-hell game that someone suggested and no one objected to. It was probably the most boring game that Chris had ever played on the channel, and between dodging yet another useless power-up, he was trying to decide how to tell his friends that they definitely weren’t uploading this on the channel.

“Wait, so in Malaysia, there were just random puddles of mysterious liquids..”

“Yep.”

“And people in Malaysia, would just take those liquids..”

“Uh-huh.”

“And put them in their food.”

“Well, like in China, they also have like that sewage-water street-food kinda shit. It’s mostly sad from an outside perspective but, y’know, people gotta do what they gotta do.” Chris nodded at Mick’s response, but didn’t speak as Tomar was carrying the conversation. He was absolutely focused on passing this boss, so his legs were bouncing and his neck was leaned all the way forward, white knuckles on the controller.

“Chris, you gotta go left for that platf-” Tomar began a helpful instruction, but Mick noticed something different, “You okay, Chris?” laying a warm, confident hand over Chris’ shoulder. It shook him to the core in the strangest way.

_That little touch reminded him of Zach telling him about the same interaction back in 2014. “Mick is such a sweetheart, dude. I was fucking sweating balls at the panel and he hugged me on stage.” Chris remembered giving Zach an inquisitive eyebrow as he explained further, “It was kinda gay, but still. Made me feel better.”_

Now, Chris felt exactly what Zach did and was becoming absolute jelly on the couch. He didn’t know why but something about the contact made him weak inside, just feeling his touch around his shoulders. “Yeh...” He responded to Mick, but messed up the jump to the next platform and died in the game. Tomar and Chris both made complaining noises and the two traded the controller. Mick just responds with a song: a cute and bassy, “Chris messed up on-the-game, but we love him an-y-way.”

Chris’ brain blanked completely. He was gutted. 8 seconds and his life was completely shaken. It was one line, one little tidbit, and suddenly Chris wants Mick to keep his arm around him like this forever, wants him to know everything about him, wants his lips.

Wants _him_ , if that hard-on from that recording had anything to say about it.

So, that dilemma has continued into now, Chris sitting on a stiff karaoke party couch, shitting bricks as he hears that Mick is coming, gulping down his beer like he’s dying in five minutes. He can’t even admire his friends’ singing because he’s too worried about looking stupid in front of him, or getting a boner, or crying, or puking, or _anything_. Chris mentally admonishes himself for wearing his skinniest jeans tonight, for wearing that ugly shirt that doesn’t match, and mostly admonishes himself for having a crush on one of his closest buds. 

Chris hates having a normal crush, so of course his brain had to give him a crush on hardcore mode.

Every attempt he makes to relax involves ordering another alcoholic drink and completely laughing it up, trying to sing with the others, becoming the life-of-the-party that he isn’t normally. Zach gives him a questioning glance but Chris brushes him off as they start I Wanna Dance With Somebody.

The two awkwardly try to do 80s dance moves before both singing terribly off key. Zach sings the first verse and Chris takes the chorus, mic in his hand like he’s performing for his world tour.

“oooueH! IwannaDANCE with someebody--ah!!” Zach ad-libs a few terrible harmonies along with Chris to spice it up. “I wanna feelDA HEATT with somebaddAHHH!! Yeahh, I wanna dance-with SOMEBODYYY…”

Chris spins around in a goofy way and sees Mick walk in, smiling from ear-to-ear at Chris’ voice. He swears that Mick actually shoots him in the heart with that smile. He gets lost in Mick’s grin, his hands waving at everybody, his eyes, the jeans he’s wearing, and Zach quickly takes over the rest of the chorus when he notices Chris has frozen up. 

Mick sits on the back couch, the one he was sitting on before. Chris spins right back around to not look weird in front of his friends but the embarrassment sets in and he can barely make up the words that are scanning down the karaoke screen. He finally catches on that the chorus ends, and Zach steps back to let Chris sing the second verse.

Every bit of humor in his singing leaks out when he senses Mick’s eyes on him, and he sings, “I’ve been in love and lost my senses, spinning through this town.” Chris is still but his voice hits every note perfectly. A few people decide to cheer on the change of serious singing tone, but the only opinion Chris cares about is Mick’s.

“Sooner or later, the feeling ends and I wind up feeling down…” He starts to groove a little more to the beat as he knows his voice is killing it (killing it as much as a guy who’s about to blackout can). “I need a man who’ll take a chance on a love that burns hot enough to last...so when the night falls, my lonely heart calls…”

Zach takes over the chorus again and encourages others to join. Soon, the whole room screams out, “DONCHA’ WANNA DANCE, SAY YOUWANNA DANCE!” Lyle’s hands are up in the air, Jeff hides his smile in the corner of the room, Niall sings the high melody, and everyone is at least 30% wasted. When the song ends, Chris falls in the couch seat right next to Mick and grabs the beer he was nursing before he came in.

“Hellooo Mickkkkk..”

Mick gives him a warm chuckle and a silly face, announcing jokingly, “Greetings, Chris-Topher.” Chris beams and tips back the rest of his drink. “You’re actually a good singer when you’re not screaming the Frozen soundtrack with Zach.”

“Aweee, thank you. You’re actually a good singer....like _always_.” He retorts, but averts his eyes because he feels like the flirt doesn’t land. Everyone claps as Lyle and Tomar get up to sing Billie Jean, but a hand meets Chris’ thigh. 

“Hey, do you mind telling me where to get a drink around here?” Mick’s eyes meet with Chris’ with a lofty, lighthearted look. Chris can’t help but feel like a dumb asshole for liking him with how pure he’s staring at him, but the alcohol gives him a little bit of vigor to press on.

“‘S outside the room down the hall, there’s like a lil’ bar with a guy with a hipster-douche moustache,” Mick chuckles, “jus’, could you please get me a refill?” He nods, pats Chris’ leg two and a half times (SPECIFICALLY. Chris would not let that detail go), and stands to get the drinks. Chris tries to focus on the song, but his eyes pull him into staring at Mick walking--- more precisely his ass---- as he opens the door up.

Mick catches his look and returns an entertained one, a grin splitting his features as he leaves, leaving Chris to become totally red from embarrassment. He shakes little in his seat and feels sweat run down onto his lower back, but he tries to not make a scene about it. Zach notices Chris bugging out yet again and makes a worried face at him that Chris shakes his head at. _I’ll get over it. The night will be over soon. Just a few more songs. Then I’ll be home. Alone. Probably getting acquainted with my left hand. But alone._

Mick returns to the room halfway through Lyle and Tomar’s song, passing Chris his beer and accidentally spilling a bit on his lap. “Oh, shit.” Chris responds sheepishly, looking down. 

“Sorry, lemme get a tissue…” Mick looks around apologetically in the room, but Chris stumbles off the couch and starts walking out of the room in search of a napkin. Two powerful, fastidious hands grab Chris by the hips and pull him back on the couch, causing a shiver down his spine. “I said _I’ll_ get it. You stay here. You’re already doin’ the wobble-walk.”

Chris nods hypnotically and sits with his hands clutching the couch fabric. Now, there’s no hiding the fast-growing boner Chris has under his skinny jeans, and he awkwardly pulls his shirt over the offending area as Mick gets a tissue. He had to admit: not only was the singing a turn on, but it just so happens to be that Mick has these thick, beautiful, amazing arms and a beautiful, sleek physique. He told Mick that he was a 9 before, but if he was being honest, Mick was a 109.

And when he gets into that sexy commanding voice, Chris does as he asks. One _hundred_ percent of the time.

Mick reappears with a tissue and moves forward to wipe him off, but Chris quickly remembers why he shouldn’t and takes it out of his hand with a meek smile. Mick leans back into the couch as he pats down his jeans.

“I’m not very sure why Lyle selected a karaoke bar as his birthday spot, it doesn’t really seem like his...place, y’know?”

Chris replies with a smile and a fake grimace, “What’re you trying to say about Lyle?”

“No, no, it’s just, he’s so…” He waves his hands around in a flailing motion and submits to his drink, catching Chris’ eyes as he takes a sip.

“So, what are you gonna sing tonight for all 'us _dweebs_?” Chris slurs and leans closer to Mick’s ear so he can hear him. He wouldn’t mind resting his chin on the shoulder under him, but effaces the fantasy from his head. The other looks upwards as in deep thought and shakes his head with a grin.

“Nah, I just came to listen,” His eyes scan the guys in front of him, “‘M a voyeur if anything. Singing hasn’t been my thing since I was seventeen.” Chris frowns and presses a careful, shaky finger on the other’s arm. 

“Oh c’mon. You’re always beltin’ out sumthin’ stupid during recording. Surely you can try something…” Mick looks back at the begging, drunken man. “Just one songgg…” His eyes were wide, slightly red, but just the cutest shade of greyish-hazel. Chris reaches forward and squeezes his arm. “For me?” 

Mick glances away and slides a hand over the back of his head, “What do you even want me to sing? It’s just kinda silly, like I don’t know any songs off the top of my head…” Chris removes his hand from his shoulder and tries to salvage his brain together, to come up with any song, any song that Mick would sing for him.

Even if Mick sang the AVGN intro, it would give Chris goosebumps. 

Some strange train of thought involving Seth MacFarlane in the film _Sing_ and Donald Trump leads Chris into suggesting, “You could sing _My Way._ Like Elvis Presley.” He jokingly suggests and Mick sits up.

“I thought Frank Sinatra was the dude who sang that song.”

“Well, maybe.”

Mick watches Lyle and Tomar finish the song, and whispers to Chris, “Well, _maybe_ I’ll sing it for you.” 

Chris’ arms and legs are covered in goosebumps as Mick stands up, and he thinks that everyone in the room can feel his heart thrumming against his chest. Everyone claps, settles in their chairs, and cheers as the instrumental begins. _He’ll sing it for me?_ His breath catches.

“And now, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain.” The bass in his voice rattles the room and Chris’ smile splits his face in half. “My friends, I’ll say it clear; I’ll state my case of which I’m certain,” A few people in their group start to wave their arms back and forth like they’re at the most beautiful concert ever sung. Chris smiles and turns on his phone flashlight, joining their waving, but his hands are shaking a little. In fact, the butterflies in his stomach are making him shake like a washing machine. He needs to relax, but he can’t.

Mick notices the light and giggles, “I’ve lived a life that’s full, I’ve traveled each and every highway,” Cory makes some joke and giggles pass through the group, but Chris can only focus on Mick in front of him. His hands gripping the microphone. “And more, much more than this,” Mick puts so much gorgeous emotion behind the word ‘much’, ”I did it, my way.”

Chris legitimately thinks he’s going to pass out. On some measure of the song, some chord, he disappears. He falls into a daze where the only things that exist in this world are him and Mick. It’s a world where they have lazy breakfasts while Mick sings airy versions of popular ballads, and a world where Chris breaks out his piano keyboard and teaches Mick how to harmonize with the right chords, and a world where he gets to slide his fingers between Mick’s and just hold on until everything is over.

Chris’ boner is rapidly changing into an even more powerful one: a drunkenly in-love boner.

He wants him to sing little melodies when they’re cuddling every night. Wants him to sing something cringy and insipid like “Say You’ll Never Let Go” at their wedding. Wants Mick to sing those silly nursery rhymes about wheels on buses and itsy bitsy spiders to their kids. Chris wants Mick to kiss his hands and hum those old songs they used to dance to when Chris is lying on his deathbed.

Fuck. What the _hell?_ _Jesus Christ._ Chris shakes his head and tries to remember where his thoughts were. Maybe he got a little out of proportion. Just a little. He looks around and sees his friends shouting and clapping at Mick who bows humbly. 

Unfortunately, Chris missed the mark for when he’s supposed to clap because he was too focused on his decades-long daydream, and awkwardly gives Mick a few haphazard claps when Mick arrives at the couch again. Mick sees this, grins, and bows again jokingly, sitting down.

Chris’ brain tells him to not immediately fangirl over Mick’s beautiful performance, “Wow, dude, that was…” but it ultimately doesn’t hold him back and he starts to gush, “Jesus fucking Christ...that wa’ like the best thing I’ve ever heard. I mean, the bassiness an’ the melody, and your high note, an’,”

Mick gives Chris a look that he can’t place, and Chris finally cuts off his sentence with, “And...and you.” Mick’s eyes get a little bigger immediately, but he looks away quickly. Chris’ brain is in overdrive now, because somehow talking to Mick becomes near impossible with how much he wants to scream out and kiss him. He starts bouncing his leg which has always been his coping mechanism.

“Sounds like someone enjoyed the performance, huh.” Mick plainly says, and Chris can feel the smirk in the sentence. Chris tries to calculate the perfect, sexiest response, but he’s cut off by the clapping as Jaxxy and Veronica get on stage. It’s some disco-y song he doesn’t recognize. _Keep him hooked,_ he thinks in his alcohol ridden daze. 

He sips his beer again, and tries his best innocent-I-don’t-really-want-you-to-make-out-with-me look. It doesn’t pass, but Mick doesn’t focus on that. “Sorry for...that. Haha...I just was really overwhelmed in some way.” Chris states. _Plain, but okay,_ he thinks.

“What do you mean ‘overwhelmed’?” 

Chris ponders it for a millisecond, and he thinks it’s it. This is the time. Shoot your shot. Don’t let your dreams be dreams. Wayne Gretsky. Or maybe Walt Disney said it. He forgets. “Well, it’s just not everyday that you get to listen to literally the hottest man of Earth sing.”

A pause. A decade passes. Chris sucks in a breath so quickly after saying that, that it hurts his lungs. _Oh shit, oh fuck, oh god. That did not land. He’s gonna think I’m some fag, some pervert, some weirdo, or he--_

“It’s not every day that the hottest man on Earth absolutely _begs_ me to sing a song for him.” Mick counters. 

A floodgate opens in Chris’ mind. He swears he can feel God’s embrace.. Fuck the insecurity shit, now he’s _encouraged._ He starts to prattle on about Mick, letting every compliment and acknowledgement he’s saved up over the past year(s) start to fall off of his tongue, “Oh shut up. I’m a faggot, dude. I don’t have your muscles or Adonis face or,” he considers saying ‘sexy’, “deep voice and shit. Don’t lie.”

Mick scoffs playfully. Chris is desperately trying to keep the too-wide grin off of his face, but it’s failing. _Is he flirting back?_ “You’re the fucking liar, dude. You, Chris O’Neill, you’re this tall, accented, fluffy haired, beautiful person.”

Chris can feel his heart in his ribcage, and it’s disgustingly the best feeling in the world. No Tinder date, no school girl back home, no gorgeous stranger has ever made him feel this absolutely fucked-over in this way, and it’s making him shiver. His eyes are glued straight forward to Jaxxy so that Mick can’t see the love and horny in his eyes. He can feel Mick scan his jaw for a second, and over the karaoke song, can hear a short murmur echo from his lips.

“You’d be a steal for a girl. Or a boy or whatever.”

Fuck.

The two of them immediately take vicious sips of their alcoholic beverage because they both know that they _heard_ that shit. Now it’s on. Chris hiccups, turns to Mick, and doesn’t waste a second.

“But you know who’s a ste-al?” Chris sing-songs, prompting Mick to roll his eyes, “You, dude. You’re the funniest, smartiest, sexiest, nicest person ever. I’m sure some stray girl would love to have her hands all over you.” He leans back a little into the couch, comfortable. Maybe it _is_ working.

Mick considers his comment, reads Chris’ dazed eyes, and parries with a playful shrug. “Honestly. If I had any _opinion_ on the matter, I’m sure anyone would love to have their hands all over you. Knitted in your hair and on your lower back, alladat’.”

Chris giggles at the thought, his cheeks blushing now as he recounts what it would be like, “What dya’ mean, Mick? What hair?? I’m literally as bald as you, dude.”

A second passes, and suddenly Mick leans in and grips his right hand into Chris’ hair, tugging it a little. Chris is ridiculously grateful for the music that muted out his surprised moan, but ridiculously ungrateful for choosing jeans tonight. He feels like his dick is going to break through his pants, or he’s going to come in the next ten seconds like a middle schooler. He feels like he’s literally going to die in a few seconds, and prays that Mick’s hand doesn’t feel the hard goosebumps on the back of his neck. His hand is in his hair, and he can’t breathe. 

Of course, Mick uses the most passive, joyful tone. He sounds like a Kindergarten teacher, “This hair right here! Hah, I guess the reason you don’t get as many girls is because you’re a little clueless boy.” Chris awkwardly chuckles a little but can’t focus.

“Well, I’m not _that_ clueless if someone’s on top of me.” He speaks a little hoarsely, but Mick actually has a fair laugh at his joke. Chris didn’t think it was all that funny, but Mick’s hand has unraveled itself from his hair and he can finally breathe and focus on non-horny things like Nostalgia Critic and global warming, and that one president Zach always jokes about. He breathes in again and attempts another flirt.

“Anyways, I remember a certain Mick telling me he would get hella girls when he wa’ a teen.”

Mick shakes his head a little and scrunches his nose, “Well, it was just bein' a kid. I was a skinny idiot who was horny like most teenagers and, y’know.”

Chris purses his lips and smirks a little, “I’m sure there were _other_ reasons why all those girls wanted to be with you.” Mick sarcastically chuckles, but he doesn’t catch what Chris means.

“Like what, you lil’ Irish clown?”

“Okay, I’ve been making up this theory fo’ years, right.”

“Okay.”

Chris waves his hands out and motions in a grandiose way trying to act like he’s doing a Ted Talk, “Lauer means _dick_ in Chinese right,” Mick nods, “Then, you’re kinda _big_ with your muscles and all,” Chris blushes thinking about it, and finishes with, “That technically means you ha’ a big dick!”

Mick doesn’t hesitate a second. “I’m sure there’s a much easier process for you to actually find that out, _Christopher.”_

Chris shits his pants.

Maybe not physically, but definitely mentally. He is frozen solid in place like he actually did shit his pants, and by the way his eyes have fluttered open in shock, maybe he did shit his pants. He realizes he didn’t shit his pants after three seconds of deliberation. 

In those three seconds of deliberation, Chris leans in, tilts his head into Mick’s ear, and on some type of cosmic autopilot, murmurs to the other, “An’ maybe I’m tryna’ get to that process.”

Mick meets his eyes with this piercingly muddled look. He doesn’t understand it, but his eyebrows are a little too low for it to be fuck-me-eyes. Chris can’t place a single emotion that swirls around in his eyes before Mick turns his head away, bows it to his phone, and goes silent.

Silent. No sing-songy jokes, no titillating flirts, no deep, sexy voice. Chris can’t hear much except the ending of the karaoke song which dissolves into applause from the crowd, and the clicking Mick does on his phone.

 _Fuck. Did I go too far?_ Maybe if Chris drank a few less beers, he would’ve known what to say, when to stop talking. Now he’s kicking himself. _God fucking damnit. He definitely thinks I’m just gay or something, and now he’s going to tell everyone and stop talking to me and Sleepycabin will be even more over...shit shit shit shit._ He can’t breathe for the ninth time tonight, but this time it chokes him. 

His leg is bouncing up and down at an Olympic pace now, and he sees Niall grab the karaoke song book, but he can’t focus on the party anymore. He feels like if he thinks about anything other than his leg, he’s going to sob like a bitch. And wouldn’t that just spice up this night even more. A hand stills his leg. His neck almost breaks with how fast he turns it. Mick’s back to looking at him, but he chuckles, turns off his phone screen, and his eyes scan Chris a little.

“God, if I knew I had to take you home tonight, I would’ve actually cleaned my bedroom.”

The boner has made a grand return, and Chris nearly cries at the way he’s staring at him. Or maybe it’s the way his hand is slowly inching higher on his thigh. He can’t suss out any words that make grammatical sense, so he just responds as normally as possible.

“W-well, isn’t tha-at alluring.” Chris wants to die inside because of the stuttering. He didn’t even know he _could_ stutter like that. Mick grins AGAIN and Chris wants nothing more than to kiss that stupid smirk off of his face.

“Didn’t need to be alluring. Just wanted to hear you stutter.” Chris stiffly giggles, and gets dangerously aware of how close Mick’s face is to his. He notices how one of Mick’s eyes are higher than the other, how his nose has a tilt. _Goddamn, Mona Lisa._

Mick notices Chris start to lean in and backs up a bit. He’s sitting straight up with a polite expression and Chris is confused.

“But. I think you’re a little too drunk, Chris. Maybe not tonight. You need to get home.” Chris unintentionally groans and throws his hands up like a toddler, scowling. Mick hides an amused expression.

“You’re drunk too!! What’s the issue?”

“Yeah, but you can barely speak without slurring words, dude. I’m still lucid. I have to take you home regardless.” 

Chris shakes his head and turns himself away from Mick, seeing the room. Somehow, he hasn’t realized that the night has winded down, and a few people have already left. Niall’s finishing some Michael Jackson song, but he accidentally picked one that’s six minutes long and is now chained to the microphone. He notices that the table in front of him is covered in six empty glasses that he unconsciously pounded, and starts to realize that he _is_ pretty drunk right now.

He needs to go home. He feels kinda sick, and the horniness on top of that isn’t helping. But there’s some weird feeling in his stomach, some glimmer of hope. _Mick_ is taking him _home. Mick_ wants to take _him_ home. _Mick_ will be in _Chris’_ house. Without other _friends_ watching them _talk_ to each other.

This glimmer of hope is becoming a scheme. When his eyes fall back on Mick, a drunken-stupid-half-baked plan unfolds. The flirting worked.


	2. chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they fuck. or do they? >:)

The night was at the most uncomfortable part---the strange junction between “Hell yeah, two more songs!” and “I wanna go home right the fuck now”---and Chris was sandwiched right between those two feelings. He was also sandwiched in an awkward, drunken hug with Lyle, joined by an equally wasted Cory hugging from the back. 

“Dudee, I love you...thank you sooo much for coming to my birthday partyyyy.” Lyle slurs.

“I love you guys _tooo_!” Cory responds, getting a laugh out of the both of them.

Everyone communally arranges their Ubers and Lyfts and their rides home while Niall finishes up his karaoke song, and Chris wants to feel relaxed. He wants to fall back into the comfort of buying an (overpriced) Uber that’ll drive him home, the comfort of cracking open his front door and being greeted by his pets, the comfort of passing out immediately when he hits his mattress.

But he can’t succumb to that warmth because he is now living in a timeline where Mick looked him in the eyes and invited him to look at his dick.

Or something like that. It’s slowly becoming harder to judge what his crush _actually_ proposed as the night winds down.

Either way, it was _real,_ the creeping hand on his thigh was _real,_ and now a new reality of unrelenting anxiety is truly setting in. Chris wants to run away from it all for some reason, even though he’s been wanting this for years. He wants to yell at himself, scream _Why?_ and have it warrant a definitive answer, but it won’t. He’s always been shy, especially to himself and his own emotions.

He notices he’s legitimately avoiding Mick when he weaves around a few people leaving, keeping Mick standing in the doorway, waiting. Chris quickly scans for an ‘out’, and of course his eyes fall on Zach. They always fall on that loser, knowing him for so many years, and he’s still wearing that worried look he overused earlier in the night. He wants to lie about his late-night whereabouts but he knows that Zach’ll see through him. He resorts to the basics.

“Hey dude, I’m tired as shit,” Chris starts, “I guess we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Zach gives him a small smile, “Yeah babe, I’ll see ya’.” Chris laughs, and he turns away to walk, because he thinks he’s safe from Zach’s nosy, rat-like omnipotence. But he isn’t. “Oh wait. Chris, do you have a ride?”

Shit. He immediately, stressedly glances left and right for any witnesses of what he said, and turns back around. Zach looks at him confused, unsure of what the big deal is. “I-uh. N’ye-Well kinda.” He kicks his feet, “Yeah, Mick is drivin’ me home.”

“Mick?”

“Mhm.”

“Why’s he driving you? I live like fifteen minutes closer to you.”

Chris playfully scoffs to play off whatever lie Zach has just unearthed, but Zach doesn’t understand it. “I jus’...he jus’ offered dude.”

Zach squints, and Chris wants to tell him everything, but he stays with the vagueness. Hands in pockets, they both say goodbye in a wordless way and Chris is back to staring at the door. 

_Mick_ is _outside_ that door. _Mick_ wants to drive _you_ home. _Mick_ probably wants to _f---_

“Are you waiting for the next Final Fantasy game to drop or what?” Chris’ head snaps back to Mick. His body is leaning against the frame and he’s hiding one of those smirks again. He tries to lead his eyes away from Mick’s shoulders and arms and chest, but can’t, and responds in an unfocused way.

“Yeh’, Uh. Do we wanna..” He points a thumb towards the outside world, and Mick turns to walk with him back to the car. Only two blocks, Mick says. Chris takes his first breath of fresh air in what has felt like seven hours, and the two shuffle to Mick’s car, Chris wobbling and Mick worried. He really didn’t consider how far two blocks is for a nearly-blackout, long-legged, no-sensed-ed, overly-horny Irish boy.

Chris tries desperately to play off his odd, diagonal walking pattern as some sexy spectacle, like his gait is going to make Mick want to fuck him on the sidewalk _right there,_ but he trips over his shoes at least four times before they actually make it to his car, and Mick can’t help but laugh each time. Each time, it’s an explosion of emotion from the both of them. Laughter and anxiety from Mick because he’s concerned Chris is about to tumble and die tonight, and an equal amount of embarrassment from Chris because he can’t believe Mick is _caring_ for him in this state.

There’s also a hint of arousal from Chris, but only because of the way Mick catches him every time he trips; he always places a hand on his lower back, or hip, or stomach, and it’s starting to get him back to the amount of riled-up he was in the karaoke room. _Focus focus focus. Car. Sidewalk. AVGN. Not Mick._ Mick walks next to him but a step in front. He’s leading the way, protecting Chris, and giving Chris an ample view of his ass in jeans in one fell swoop. _Focus, idiot._

When they finally reach the car, Chris’s cheeks are dark red. Not in the kawaii, sexy way, but in the “I’ve just done a ten mile hike in 90 degree weather” way. Mick and Chris finally meet eyes next to his ride home, and Mick doesn’t know whether to laugh or sigh sadly at the way Chris appears right now. Chris doesn’t know that Mick is calculating his wellbeing, and instead thinks that Mick is staring dreamily at him which is really doing something for him. Chris smiles awkwardly.

“Alright, can you make it _inside_ the car now?” Mick teases, and Chris groans. Mick unlocks the car and walks to the driver seat.

“Um...yes. It’s literally not even h…” Chris struggles with the door. _How the fuck. Nonono._ He wants to kick himself so bad, but he doesn’t even think he has the physical capability to manage that right now. Now he’s panicking and fiercely hoping that Mick doesn’t watch his feeble attempt and drive away in disgust; his first instinct is helplessly pushing into the door, putting his weight on it, almost snapping the handle off, and Mick nearly sprints out of the car.

“Hey hey hey hey,” He presses a gentle hand against Chris’ shoulder and pulls the door open, “relax buddy.” It’s not a rude comment by any means, but the difference between that patience and Chris’ aggression a few seconds again makes Chris’ eyes well up weirdly. He’s staring up at the car roof and praying that Mick just scuttles back away so that he can cry quietly, in peace at the idea of this strange, random night.

Mick’s not moving from the passenger side, and the door’s still open. Chris wonders if this is now the part of the movie where they’re supposed to kiss in the rain and get married or something. They stare blankly at each other. Mick finally speaks up, “Are you gonna put your seatbelt on?”, and the comment barely registers in Chris’ brain. In Chris’ mind, Mick is done with his drunk antics, probably smart to drop him off at a nearby McDonald’s, most likely enraged. His actions disagree though, as Mick sweetly moves into the car and pulls the seat belt down over Chris. 

It’s a small gesture, and the touch is over in a second, but Chris swears that Mick’s hand purposely slides over Chris’ chest. The hand is careful but all too arousing, heavenly. Chris’s leg is back to bouncing when Mick buckles him in and closes the door, and he again wishes that his shirt was two feet longer so that it could cover his ever-growing hardon efficiently.

Mick starts the car, but not before reaching backwards into the backseat. Chris has the quick thought of _Jesus fucking Christ, why do you want me to ruin my jeans so bad_ because Mick’s shirt rides up and his back is arched, but the moment quickly extinguishes. “Here’s some water,” It’s a random, filled water bottle the size of Mick’s forearm and Chris scowls in astonishment, “You need to drink like all of this dude. I’m not jokin’.” 

He hands it to him. Chris takes a tentative sip, mad it’s not some sugary, punchy, bitter beverage, but almost smirks at it. Mick’s giving _you_ his water bottle. Mick probably drinks this when he’s _working out_. Chris wants to destroy the area of his brain that gives him this level of school-girl-esque fanciful idealism. He cannot. He takes another gulp.

They’re chatting, but it’s nothingness. Chris always had a special amount of hate for small-talk, but somehow the talk gets even smaller when the gap between them is a near sexual revelation. The tension comes from the “near” of that phrase, because Chris can’t decide on whether to be violently frustrated or eagerly hopeful. He’s at the point of this night where he thinks his first analysis of any situation is the right one; when Mick mentions his mom, it’s _only_ because Mick wants him to meet his mom, and when Mick drums his fingers on the steering wheel, it’s _only_ because he wants Chris to notice his lithe fingers.

They’re on some topic that Chris zoned out of thirty seconds ago and that Mick is solely carrying, “it doesn’t seem like it _should_ exist, but it does. I guess. Kinda odd. Like you think it would just entirely disappear if everyone drove--”

Chris’ mouth goes on autopilot again. He doesn’t even understand why it comes out, but some part of his brain told him this was the hot, sexy, mysterious response to Mick leading him on in their entire car trip, “You don’ gotta...y’know.”

Mick’s turning the car, but his eyes fall back to Chris, “Hm?”

“You jus’ don’t have to. I already know.”

“Know what?” Mick’s question is only met with an inscrutable, almost facetious look from Chris, and he pushes, “Know that you’re...I dunno, gonna have a huge hangover tomorrow?”

Chris winces at the thought, but it’s not what he’s talking about, “No. I jus’, I already know. That you want to…” He thinks about making a crude hand gesture to further translate, but Mick is already giving him an appalled expression.

“Chris,” And it’s a judging tone! How dare he. “You--we. We, uh.” Mick is trying to stitch together the words in front of him but Chris has the sinking feeling the statement will be dipped in rejection. Mick’s doing the thing with his hands again where he just lets the words leak out Italian-style, but it’s somehow harder to read outside of the karaoke place. He almost misses a green light.

“I just..It’s a lot. For the both of us. I told you before. I…” He looks down to calculate, “I wouldn’t feel... _good_ about myself if we just...tonight.”

Chris says the worst thing, and knows it’s the worst thing as he says it, but can’t stop himself. It’s awkward and inarticulate, not the right time, but it’s the perfect opposite to Mick’s heavy-handed analyses and cordial platitudes.

“I love you.” 

To Chris’ surprise, Mick doesn’t stop the car. The sun doesn’t randomly rise and drown the two in sunshine and rainbows. The world doesn’t end. The worst effect is that it feels like the air has been immediately sucked out of the car like a vacuum. Chris keeps his eyes trained forward, maybe to seem relaxed, maybe to seem smart, maybe to prompt Mick to take Chris by the neck and _turn_ him to face him.

The weirdest effect is that Mick doesn’t stop the conversation. He lets a beat of silence overtake the allegation, and continues. “I love you too Chris.” And Chris’s plan was to jump and bounce and dance around and kiss him when he dreamed about this exact scenario, but it doesn’t happen. It’s somehow more complacent, relaxed. It’s not like those scenes in rom-coms where they feel overjoyed and cry and shit. It’s a rewarding feeling, one where you truly feel like you won the best prize. Like stepping inside a bath with the exact right temperature.

Chris almost forgets to listen to anything Mick says next, but he wants to hear him. Wants to hear his “””lover””” and everything else he’ll ever say. He feeds off of it now, drunk and in love and honored, if anything. His lover’s waving his hands around again. “I just...I just don’t wanna fuck up, y’know? Like on a drunk night? Have everything….destroy it all?”

The words are heavy and too powerful a contrast from the five words he just received. He would later reflect heavily on each word, each contraction and slur Mick uttered and how much respect each carried, but right now Chris is only trying to deliberate. He wants Mick, truly in every way, but the alcohol makes him uncharacteristically impatient. His face turns to the other and he watches Mick touch his face lightly, and scratch his beard.

Chris weirdly resists the urge to touch Mick’s beard as well, and looks down, trying to figure out a way to explain himself, to love him. Mick murmurs out a quiet “i don’t know” when he feels Chris’ scanning eyes on him and places his right hand on the console. Conversely, Chris places his left hand on the console, and Chris internally screams when neither hand doesn’t immediately jump away. The hands stay. They’re intertwined, and it’s better than he thought he would be.

“I get it, but I _want_ this, Mick.” He considers another drop of the L word, but even drunk, he gets the manipulative implication behind it. The drunk element is giving him an alien amount of forwardness to Mick, somehow a charisma lubricant between the two. It’s comforting. Mick’s hand doesn’t move, but when he stares at Chris, he sardonically rolls his eyes. Chris gets that it’s just one of Mick’s dramatically joking expressions, probably picked up in acting school, but it’s a tender glance. One that makes Chris quiver.

It’s not long before Mick makes it to Chris’ driveway.

It is somewhere between stumbling across that small cement driveway and cracking open the door that Chris is on him. Kissing him in a way he never could’ve fathomed. He despises that he would never remember the _exact_ moment he kissed him to reminisce, the last breath he took pre-making-out-with-Mick ---- never have that Polaroid pristine image in his head of the look in his eyes --- but the feeling is hard to forget. Chris’ lips are plump and fast and energetic; Mick’s lips are punctuated, passionate. He likes to savor it. 

Mick’s hands are on the small of Chris’ back like they were on the street, and Chris’ hands are brave and devilish and starved. They make quick work of feeling out Mick’s back muscles, his arms, his neck, and he wants to wrap his arms around him. Until the both of them realize it’s hard to kiss like this. Chris is forced to wobble backwards sorta in the direction of the door, Mick to guide him without opening his eyes and staring awkwardly at the boy.

Halfway through couple-wobbling they break it off. Their directions are wordless but they both scream “open the door” at each other, and Chris obeys. When he finally makes it to the door, he grabs his keys. His fingers are jelly, shaking, and the keyhole is almost moving away from the key, telling him that he cannot let Mick in. Mick’s behind him (he knows because he can feel his eyes buried into him), and Mick’s taking a step closer, and Mick has his hand over Chris’ shaking right hand.

He cannot choose whether to feel deeply in love or deeply horny as Mick assists him in opening the door, so he chooses both. He relishes the feeling of Mick’s breath on his neck, and the way Mick’s hand twists with his. In a final act of contention, his last exhale of any sort of dominance for the night to come, Chris backs away. He removes his hand from under Mick’s, ignores Mick, and takes a step forward. He’s stepped over that tiny barrier they make between the porch and the house, the door-holder, whatever word Chris has forgotten. 

For the first time tonight, he doesn’t want theatrics, or movie scenes with huge crescendos. He tentatively turns around, wanting to just take another look. Mick is a sight even in the little glow his outdoor lights bring on him. They give each other one last glance of peaceful, platonic, no-homo-bro delicateness, and then Mick pounces.

It is nothing less than a pounce. The night has lost the curious flirtation and fully indulged the horniness, the afterhours, and the fatigued heat they both want to submerge in. Mick pushes Chris against the wall (Chris’ _own_ wall! In his _own_ house!) and he moans without hushing himself, the makeout growing more fervent and the conclusion of the night drawing more apparent.

They’re both smiling into the kiss, and they can feel it. When their tongues meet, there’s this humor about it, the same type of laugh one would get out of their first time kissing a high school partner. It’s dumb and loving and sexy as hell, the way Chris is letting his hand linger on Mick’s face, the way Mick wants to feel him even more. Mick’s hands gravitate far lower than Chris imagined previously; he’s grabbing his hips and his ass firmly, so firmly that there’ll be marks in the morning. Chris likes the pain a little too much, and suddenly the kissing turns to a level of grinding Chris feels is too heavenly for one night.

He can feel Mick’s cock on his thigh. He’s thought about Mick’s cock for quite some time, even tried to spot it in the tight jeans he wears, jerked off to the _idea_ of it. But it’s against him right now, and he’s trying not to hyperventilate, minimizing the space between them to feel him even more, hoping that maybe Mick is just as excited to feel his. They’re pressed together, moaning and quietly whimpering into each other’s mouths, and the experience is alien. 

At some point, Mick decides that making out right next to Chris’ door isn’t the optimal position, and he starts to guide Chris like before. They’re not wobbling, he’s not pushing worriedly, and it’s not uncomfortable like before. It’s sensual. He’s holding Chris by his hips, almost picking him up, guiding him footstep by footstep. It’s not long before they make it to the kitchen counter, and they haven’t stopped kissing --- Chris wouldn’t let that happen. He swears Mick picks him up and pulls him onto his kitchen island, and he wants Mick to take him right the fuck here, the counter that still has a old plate on it, the counter with the forgotten mayo bottle and a few random papers Chris should’ve put away this morning. 

They stop kissing for a moment, and all they can hear is each other breathing. Their dicks are almost touching even through the two layers of denim. It’s a fast challenge for Chris. His hands become _confident_ when his legs are perfectly wrapped around Mick on this counter, and his hands, though uncoordinated, are quickly traveling down Mick’s shirt, pulling it up. He’s touching Mick’s belt, and he’s looking up at Mick with this bare, lustful gaze. His lips are red.

Mick balks. He fucking looks at him, spread out on the counter, and he _hesitates._ The half-assed words are being sewn together like before, but Chris almost doesn’t want to hear a thing because he’s focused on not suddenly sobbing. Those apologetic eyes. He wants to scream, but Mick responds to him in a near whisper, stutters, “Wait, Chri-is, we can’t. We...we gotta stop.”

Mick quickly notices Chris’ welling up eyes, his knotted fists, and tries to make up the best response possible, but can’t. He can only speak from what he knows as right. He puts a hand over Chris’s. “I’m sorry, we’re drunk, Chris.”

Chris doesn’t remember much after that part of the night. He does remember actually making an audible sob at that comment, does remember a silent Mick carrying him to bed, but he doesn’t remember what Mick tells him when he lays him down. He doesn’t remember Mick undressing him, or him falling asleep, or letting the dogs out to pee when he got home.

When he wakes up, he has no trouble at all remembering the distinct mistake of drinking alcohol. His headache is so splitting that he barely remembers Mick came home with him last night, reaching helplessly for the nightstand that conveniently presents him ice water and two ibuprofens. He takes both, lays back down to consider his terrible choices, and almost jumps when he realizes the other side of the bed is warm. He always sleeps on the right side, and never rolls in his sleep. Chris doesn’t fully put it together until he hears a singing hum from the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops. my dumbass made it longer. accidentally fell in love with this rare pair. sue me. the real story is that i intended to make just one big ole sex-c second chapter, but i wrote the final sentence for this chapter and decided that it was an excellent penultimate ending, yanno? i wanted to infuse more humor into the second act of this chapter but it's honestly kinda very hard to write the funnies while sex is happening, so i'm sorry if this chapter is a little top heavy?? in a way. i like sex in a fic but i highkey feel like i have a lot to learn about writing it.
> 
> anyway, hopefully the final chapter is coming soon!! 
> 
> school is starting soon (they are sending me into covid infested waters pray for me) so the next chapter might be a little slow, so apologies ahead of time! as always, have a great day and stay safe!


	3. chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ok NOW they have secks

Chris, for vast and various reasons, does not want to get up. He does not want to leave the bed, and has absolutely zero interest in seeing Mick. It’s not particularly that he feels wronged by Mick or that he’s mad at him; it’s just this deep, sinking ship bobbing up-and-down in his stomach. He’s being engulfed by these waves of uneasy emotion, the dangerous uncertainty of not knowing what’s beyond his bedroom door. Will Mick swallow him up in a hug, will they  _ immediately  _ have sex, or will they exchange empty greetings, or will they even speak to each other?

Chris considers just laying here for the rest of the week. His bedsheets are navy and monotone and warm, not vague and risky and...tan? Mick is tan, right?  _ God, you idiot, _ he thinks when he realizes that one of his first thoughts today is about Mick’s skin. He feels like Buffalo Bill.

So he executes this plan. He lays out the ground rules: it’s 10 AM, you will lay dead here until 12. You cannot get up to eat, as that would erase the plan entirely. Nor can you look at your phone, less  _ he _ walks in all sexy with his shirt off and then realizes you’ve been ignoring him for hours, and then runs away angry at you. It will work perfectly to these rules. This plan is one of Chris’ best, until ten minutes in when he is struck powerfully with the urge to pee, and decides to make the ultimate sacrifice. His bladder forces him to conclude the plan, and now his hand is stilted on the bedroom door. He knows Mick is out there.

He is unhappy that he has to confront him. He feels like Rapunzel, a person both fearful and curious to see what’s outside of his purview. Except his hair isn’t as long as hers, he doesn’t have an evil mother wedging herself between him and Mick, and Rapunzel probably didn’t have a hangover like this. Half of the reason he pushes the door open is because his vertigo makes him lean on it too hard, and suddenly Mick is staring at him. Of course he forgets that his bedroom door is almost exactly across from the kitchen.

Mick is tan and vague and shirtless, as Chris prophesied. It is glorious and warm and erotic and disconcerting. It recalls an old memory, one of being this disoriented yet comforted in the old Sleepycabin house as Mick cooked them breakfast. He was always the house mom. “Ay!! No touching until it’s finished,” He yelled at Chris when he wobbled into the kitchen, nibbling at the ingredients. It was an omelette and Chris still upholds the flavor to this day, but now after further review, the praise may have had ulterior origins.

Now they’re staring at each other, and unlike last night, neither of them can pussy up the confidence to throw a simple “hello.” Unlike last night, their eyes don’t waver down each other’s frames, and the charisma and arousal doesn’t ooze plainly from the alcohol in their veins. They’re left with the post-coital-except-non-coital clarity. The conversation starter doesn’t find itself until forty seconds later where Mick can smell the eggs burning, “Shit…”

And that interjection is the perfect option for Chris to book it to a less confrontational location (not the end of a long, barely-lit, thin hallway). He now sits on his couch, blushing, surveying the situation without the threat of talking, and notes how comfortable Mick has made himself in Chris’ house. The TV’s on, and it’s some… home-improvement show? He didn’t even know Mick watched those. Figures. A few windows are cracked upon, but it doesn’t stop the strong waft of the ingredients in the kitchen. The bacon is popping, the eggs are being transferred to a location where they aren’t burning, potatoes are cut. 

Chris is dangerously split between feeling so comfortable at home and feeling like he’s being threatened by the cartel. It’s other to him because this  _ is  _ his home, and his favorite person is  _ in  _ his home, but he can’t shake the heavy fog of... _ rejection? Soreness? Distance? _

It’s even quieter, even sparser and emptier than they were in the car. Chris doesn’t talk to Mick. Mick tries a laugh at something someone says on the TV, but Chris is focused in a different dimension trying to sort out his feelings.  _ Confusion? _ His thanks are wordless when Mick gives him a tiny, sanguine smile and an omelette on a plate. 

He is sitting on his grey, old Ikea couch that he planned to be roughly fucked on last night and Mick tentatively sits next to him. It’s ironic. They are perhaps a foot apart in distance but gravity holds them apart, pushes them away from an idle conversation about the “weather this morning” or “Sammy” or “twitter drama”. They both  _ clearly _ understand that a talk about “last night” is nowhere near idle. 

_ Anxiety? _

“I, uh. I burnt the omelette,” His hands are fluid, “You can probably taste it now, but I...I thought it’d just be like, rude if I didn’t tell you. At one point.”  _ A metaphorical jab at me huh?  _ Chris thinks. Yet the weirdly tender remark shakes his brain out of the fog, and he’s sitting on the couch, and he realizes the whole night  _ fully.  _ The talent show to win each other over, the flirtatious remarks, the handsy touches at the karaoke place, the dear car conversation, the  _ much _ handsier touching in Chris’ hallway, and now the thoughtful omelette. It all sat in his brain and swirled in his stomach.

They drift in silence for a bit, no answer to Mick’s warning. His headache has faded by the time that the HGTV showrunners renovated this dingy space in Tennessee, and he tries to prevent his mind from wavering through empty possibilities. He instead makes a decision. 

Chris carefully places his omelette plate on his coffee table, it being too small to accommodate much more than a book and a few plates; he then turns his head. Mick is to the left of him, and his face carries a tired, anxious countenance. He wishes it was the smirk they shared incessantly last night. And then carefully, Chris scoots a bit closer, presses a hand against Mick’s chest, and surprises* him with a kiss.

*They are both magnificently surprised. Neither thought they would ever talk to each other again.

It suddenly turns back into the night before, minus the stumbling and the worry and crying. Chris’ other hand meets Mick’s stubbly, slightly chubby cheek and Mick fulfills his omen in the karaoke bar, knitting a hand deep into the hair on Chris’ neck. They interlock. It doesn’t take much parallel kissing before Chris scoots even closer and swings his other thigh over Mick, he now straddling the other. It’s hot and interesting, the way Mick grabs and squeezes his thighs, the way he lets Chris take minimal control. Chris thinks about how powerful he simply  _ feels  _ around the man who he sees as the strongest, and takes it to heart as he realizes just how unsure he is now.

He is exactly where he wanted to be for the past year and has lost any semblance of a plan. Any sort of a mission statement or certain position or sexy phrase has gone missing, and he accidentally moans out an inner mantra, “Fuck I-don’t-know-wha’-I’m doing,” Their lips part and they’re breathing onto each other, quiet. Mick leans into him, lays a soft kiss on the other’s neck and ear, and murmurs a simple, deep, facetious, annoying, “Okay.”

Chris wants to giggle and jab him, but he has goosebumps all over his arms and neck, his thighs. He becomes jelly over stupid jokey talk only because Mick is saying it. Mick  _ wants _ him to hear it. Chris instead guffaws at Mick, and the single soft kiss on his neck turns into ten, each one rougher and more erotic. One large hand crades Chris’ neck from slumping over and dying of arousal while the other slides down Chris’ back, his lower back, and ends on his ass. Then, halfway through a jaw kiss, Mick  _ squeezes  _ his ass.

Any sort of playful, challenging silence leaks out of Chris in the form of a squeaking groan. He wasn’t even aware he could make noises like that, but Mick keeps going, forcing these moans out of him with mischievous agility. “Ahh...ff-...Mick--” Chris’ quivering hands go up and down Mick’s shirtless torso. They simply can’t settle from the amount of sensitivity Chris feels in every touch and kiss and passing comment from Mick.

He overhears a few quips in that deep, exciting voice. Mick hums and chuckles at the man’s emotion, whispers, “fuck, babe…” or “god, you like that?”, sometimes “say my name again…” He can barely focus from all the stimulation, most of his communication coming out from horny squeaks or random babbling. He thanks whatever higher being for Mick’s shirt already being off before this exchange, letting his hands wander all the way down to where they were last night. Mick’s lips are on his collarbone, but it becomes his turn to moan out when a hand slides against his cock in his thin pajama pants. 

Chris gasps at the sound, at the feeling of it in his hand, and he looks at Mick’s eyes under him. He stutters again in the heat of the moment, “Ohhh my god, this is so crazy..” Mick’s fingers paw at his waistband, “Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod.”

Mick catches the same anxiety he felt last night flickering in Chris’ eyes and pulls back, “Do you wanna stop?”

“ _ Fuck  _ no,” he replies bluntly, and they both buck against each other at the sound of it. They’re groaning into each other at the magical feeling of it, and both of their heads are dipped into the other’s chest. Mick’s guiding Chris’ hips, taking off his shirt, and they kiss more passionately with the connection of their chests. Some carnality from this turns Mick’s balanced mind into more dominant feelings, so as their grinding advances, so does Mick’s desire.

His hands are too lovingly tight around Chris’ hips, and Chris swears Mick pulled some hair out with the way his hand stays _taut;_ along with this, his sloppy, passionate kisses turn into erotic bites, his chest, his neck battered. It is absolutely the sexiest thing he has ever felt. His cheeks are hot, his groans deeper. If he could rate the ‘hardness’ of his dick out of 10 right now, it would rate at a 10 easily.

“You fuckin’ like that, huh? You’re all blushy for me,” It is now at a 20. Suddenly Chris is pushing off of his thighs, moving seductively and awkwardly down Mick’s legs, and stopping when his knees hit his rug. He kneels in front of the other and cannot even describe the insanity of the sight. Meeting eyes, Mick looks wolfish, powerful staring down at him. Yet there remains a sweetness behind all of it; he is about to be sucked off by one of his closest friends, but he knits his fingers between Chris’ and rubs his hand.

Chris is silent and shaking. He’s hit a whole other wall of uncertainty --- now the wall isn’t about how to kiss his friend, now the wall is how to give effective oral--- and he has no clue what to rely on. His first resort is a confirmation of where he is. He massages Mick’s legs up and down, lets him rake his hands through his hair, and kisses Mick’s knee. When they’re done being coy to each other, they team up to take Mick’s pajama pants off. They’re a little gimmicky, blue covered in little game controllers. It strikes Chris when they’re halfway down his legs, “Hey, are these...my...pajama pants?”

Mick finds it a bit amusing that that’s the first thing Chris notices when he’s between his legs, “Yeah, I just didn’t wanna sleep in my jeans.”

“Oh,” The word wavers in emotion when Chris stares at Mick’s tight boxer-briefs. They’re only a bit thicker than the pants. He can’t move his eyes away, “okay.” Does he just...grab it? It turns him on to see it straining through the material, but what is there to do with it?  _ He expects a blowjob, not me to stare at his clothed dick for an hour.  _ He chooses to then peel off the briefs, to finally look at his cock, and he almost faints. It’s large to Chris kneeling, but probably just average. Thick. The head is dripping some precum. He legitimately wants to throw his mouth on it, but still feels shaken by the idea of it.  _ Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. _

Chris, before this moment, believed that he was something of a professional. At least, his fake blowjob impression was renowned and supposedly good according to Zach and Niall. Anyway, he doesn’t have much training besides porn. And every porn video he’s ever watched makes the task of oral seem easy, maybe kinda boring, but simple. Step 1, place penis in mouth. Step 2, go back and forth. Step 3, hollow cheeks/moan for a little pizzazz. Step 4, he comes. Ta-da. However, those videos seem to miss the detail of the man staring down at you expectantly. They also kinda miss out the element of “I have never ever ever done this before,” or the “what does this even taste like?”

Chris is shaking, but he’s hiding it pretty well. He’s probably the most excited he’s been in years but he’s pants-shittingly scared. A lovely balance. He selects his first course of action: a hand. That’s how all of the videos  _ start,  _ anyway. He grabs Mick’s dick, listens to his little moan, and starts to jerk him off. It’s warm, kinda soft, and not too difficult; after all, he jerks himself off all the time. His hand moves up and down and he studies Mick’s eyebrows knitting up just a little and his hand grabbing down on the sofa. It’s just a normal handjob, probably, but it has this weird feeling of limp-wristed fear. Chris doesn’t want to rip his dick off like a gorilla, that idea somehow popping into his head halfway through.

Mick’s surely getting pleasure out of the experience, but the room isn’t loud and hot anymore. It has a strange air of anxiety, almost awkwardness, the same one that existed during breakfast, and he decides to step in once more. He was petting Chris’ other hand through the handjob, and pulls it a bit when Chris does a specifically loose stroke. They are wordless in their communication but the doubtful look in his eye makes Chris think he has failed. He has lost at handjobbing. He is a failure to his lineage. But Mick always surprises him. He takes Chris’ other hand off, holds it in his own, and guides Chris in the way he did last night. 

“Here, let me..” Mick’s hands are a bit cooler than Chris’, but when their duo-hold-hand wraps around his dick again, it’s warm. The movement is immediately more fluid, more erotic, and Mick starts murmuring out curses and commands and praises for Chris. Chris quickly learns not to hit the tip so hard, to apply tighter pressure, and to be rhythmic in the feeling. The room heats up and the game becomes all-the-more enjoyable when one is suffocating on moans. He feels Mick twitch a bit.

Swiftly, Mick moves his hand off Chris’, gives him the reins of control. With that daze comes the soft promotion of ‘the next step’: his thumb slips under Chris’ chin, and they glance back up at each other with a fire in their eyes. Chris loves this as much as Mick loves it right now, and it’s sexy how curious he stays. He isn’t selfish in bed, a quick and efficient learner. The thumb twitches a bit under Chris’ lip with how enjoyable the handjob is, yet it fulfills its mission, pushing into his mouth. He is only nervous about it for a millisecond, but instinctively knows exactly what to do, and in seconds he is going back and forth on it, wrapping his tongue around it (he would never admit to how much the blowjob impression helped him.)

The other is pleasantly shocked by it. The boy could barely pull down his boxers a moment ago and now is licking the sides of his thumb like a...professional? He feels weirdly proud, but doesn’t let it distract him. His thumb slips out and cracks open Chris’ mouth. Chris, uncharacteristically, not anxious, not confused in the slightest, sinks down on his cock. It’s  _ so  _ much bigger in his mouth and he struggles to move his tongue for a few seconds, but he quickly tags along. Step 1, done. Step 2, his eyes flick up to Mick. He looks mischievous and sexy, and when Chris moves his head down a little further, his mouth falls open a bit and he looks vulnerably hot.

“Ff-fuck, Chris...you’re way too g..” He develops a rhythm to it. He doesn’t throw on all the talents and theatrics because it’s a bit difficult and his first time, but he bobs up and down passionately, humming in his throat at Mick’s squirming and groaning. His face is flushed staring up at the man whose back is arched and eyes are almost starting to cross. The moans are deep and throaty, so full of wholesome praise that contrasts the sinful situation, “Good boy, Chris, yo-...so fuckin’ good for me..”

Chris can’t smile with a dick down his throat, but the praise does get to him. He’s happy. He’s happy to finally be on his knees giving a blowjob to one of his favorite people while the other moans out his name. His own dick is starting to rub against the fabric in his pants and he hopes he doesn’t come before Mick gets his hands on him. He realizes this wait for Mick might not be too long when his dick twitches in his mouth (which Chris would later report as one of the weirdest feelings ever) and Mick notices this as well. After a few seconds, Chris gets pushed off by Mick. This movement is again wordless, but not touchless because in a moment, Mick grabs him by his shoulders, stands him up, kisses him, and then slams Chris flat across the couch. 

“Uhm..ow…” He responds half-sarcastically, but immediately shuts up when he sees what Mick is doing. Mick perches on the couch arm, and then starts stalking towards Chris. Chris’ pants are still on, but Mick is almost lying on  _ top  _ of him. He can feel his breath.

His eyes look warmly at his face. Chris resists the urge to buck up and come right against Mick. One hand grabs Chris by his jaw, and one hand slinks urgently down Chris’ chest into his pajama pants. He masks the moan by praising him as he reaches, “You’re so good, Chris. So fucking good at this,” his warm hand is now grasping Chris’ dick and he has to grab at Mick’s shoulder to not immediately bust.

“ _ Too  _ good at this.” Chris bites back a quip about how villainous that sounds, but he can barely focus with the way Mick strokes him.  _ Takes one good-gay-sexer to know one, huh?  _ He starts jerking him off slowly, practical for the morning before. “Probably hafta’ keep a leash on you to make sure other men don’t get this sort of treatment from you.” The possessiveness almost makes his eyes roll back, but the increasing speed of the handjob ensures the arch in his back.

“It’s only you, I only want you, since forever, Mick,” He babbles, “Plea’ please please...don’ let me...fuck..” Chris’ eyes are rolled to the back of his head, but he can tell Mick changes his tune, his rhythm after hearing that. Maybe he’s flattered. Maybe he’s disgusted.

“Yeah?” His eyes are cemented on the other, and he pushes down Chris’ pants a little bit more. He can see how into it this boy is, and honestly doesn’t want him to worry about a whole new cum-stained load of laundry. He wants to kiss him after hearing his little confession, but decides he should finish the task before moving onto a deep conversation about their lives. He still thinks about it though. He thinks about it when he bends down into Chris’ ear, whispering hot, sweet nothings to him about how he’s also thought about him forever, how he wanted to bend him over in the office building and take him, how he loves him so much.

Chris feels metaphysical. He always thought Niall’s bullshit about astral projection was untrue, but lying on his couch getting jerked off like this is starting to create some out-of-body experience in his deepest soul. His words have dissolved into repeating his name, and his movements involve gripping Mick’s shoulder, but he changes this in the spur of the moment. While Mick murmurs all of these gorgeous words, Chris reaches down and starts to jerk Mick off too. They’re about at the same height, anyway, and it was starting to worry him that he’d die immediately after coming and never finish Mick off.

When Mick feels his hand, he stutters a bit more. He continues his spiel about his fantasies for him all these years, how much he wanted to pull Chris’ hair by the back when he grew it out that one summer, but the feeling of their joined masturbation taxes his speech. He groans deeply into Chris’ ear after a particularly hard stroke, and then it’s over.

The groan immediately grounds Chris back to Earth, and the groan makes his hips buck all the way up, and the groan makes him cover his stomach in cum, complete with a strangled moan and a too-tight hand on Mick’s shoulder. It’s an orgasm that goes on too long; when Mick finishes with almost a roar, he’s far too sensitive to react and finish him off and kiss him and praise him in his ear. He sinks into the couch, comforted in warm afterglow and a satisfied chuckle from Mick. Mick Lauer  _ came  _ on you. Mick wanted you to  _ cum.  _ Mick gave  _ you  _ a facial. Or chest-al?

Mick comes back to the couch with a towel, perennially responsible, and Chris reinvigorates three minutes from what felt like a nine hour nap. It is perfect. He feels perfect, albeit a little jumpy and sensitive, when Mick wipes down his naked chest and tries to hide his prideful grin. There is silence in the room, but a connection, a warmth fills in the cracks. Chris, on shaking legs, stands and walks to the shower. He is joined in the shower, but it isn’t as heavily sinful as their rendezvous on the couch. Mick wipes Chris when some shampoo sticks on his shoulder. Chris accidentally hands Mick a shampoo bottle and they have a giggle. They quietly kiss. 

Chris lays down first. He’s not sure why he’s in bed at 11:30 AM, but it feels right. They can be close here, not burdened by the memories of the sex-couch or the boringness of the HGTV channel. His first instinct is to look at his phone. The first notification that pops up is a text from Zach: dud3 r w3 re3c0rd!ng 2d@y??

The second text after that is a combination of about 34 emojis. He smiles, considers for a short moment giving a quick synopsis to his friend, and decides against it. _ It’s not polite, Twitter is a better use of my time, yadda yadda.  _ (He also believes that Zach deserves details, not a short synopsis. He’ll substitute the recording for a lunch where he can fully retell the tale to him for a few hours. Gay shit included.)

Before he gets much further down his timeline, Mick lays down next to him. He is warm. He smells nice. Chris plugs his phone in on his nightstand. Mick puts an arm around him before he can roll backwards into him, and the two stare up at the ceiling, navy bed sheets pulling the two closer.

Mick breaks the ice. “So...did you mean it?”

“What?” Chris tries to recount what he said before getting excited again, “The blowjob?”

He laughs, “I mean...yeah, but also what you said. To me.”

Chris does not yield to a pause. “Of course.”

They both resist staring into each other’s eyes. “Okay.” A breath falls out of Mick, an exhale probably resonating from the earliest crush, the earliest moment he remembers with him, the exhaustion of chasing it all for years.

“I can’t believe you lied to me though,” Chris remarks, causing Mick to turn his head to him.

“Hmm?”

“Elvis Presley  _ totally  _ sang My Way.” A giggle erupts from Mick.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mick sings, and Chris smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank y'all so much for reading through this!! this might be the longest actual fanfic project i've done and i'm actually pretty proud of how it turned out (and proud that i didn't procrastinate so hard i stopped writing it :0) i'm not exactly sure what my next story on this website will be, but i'm leaning towards a oneypebbles one or another of my sleepy rare pairs...any suggestions are okay with me :)
> 
> anyways stan oneyplays and sleepycabin, drink water, etc. etc. again thank u for reading and i hope you have a great day! stay safe!!11!


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